Yosip made only strangled, nervous sounds in reply.
Mirko bobbed his head quickly. “It’s true, milord. Comes from my village. Ruined his back fixing a wagon. Looks strong, but he’s useless as a three-legged donkey.”
With an impatient sound, the lord waved the serjeants on. In a short while they returned with a dozen men, each beaming like they had won a prize. Poor fools, Mirko thought, but there was no way to save them. The army set off again, and soon they were out on the grassy plain he had seen before. Vasik used a foreign word to describe it — savanna. Cheers went up from the front of the army, spreading along its length. They were in Jandaria now. Riches awaited them.
Late in the afternoon, a black column of smoke twisted its way into the sky. By the time they reached the village, it was burned to the ground. Even the hedge wall around the settlement had turned to ash. “Why did we set fire to it?” Havryl the Fisherboy asked. “Priest-King Leax promised us farms.”
“It wasn’t us,” Vasik explained. “The Jandari will take anything they can and burn the rest. An army is always hungry. They hope to starve us.” That doesn’t seem likely, Mirko thought. A vast fleet of barges and riverboats trailed the army.
Past the village was a castle. He had seen a few on their march to Jandaria and this was built on similar lines. It sat on a hill that looked too perfect to be natural, with four round towers, a central keep, and a stout gatehouse. The Green Lady was narrow there, no more than a hundred and fifty paces wide, and the castle loomed over its banks. Men lined the walls, watching their approach.
The Belgorshan army immediately began to encircle the castle, like a milk snake coiling around a rat. Several thousand men marched south, and Mirko thought they were probably going to find a ford and hold the opposite bank.
His feet had blistered days before and he longed to cool them in the river, but a serjeant set his tithe to digging a trench around the castle, along with countless other peasants. The short-handled shovel made his back ache, and its rough handle was full of splinters. After three hours, the castle was hemmed in with no hope of escape. Only a few passages remained to allow Belgorshan soldiers through the trench line.
“Bring spears and come,” a serjeant ordered in passable Belgorshan. Mirko and the others followed like ducklings as he led them to a spot downriver from the castle. “This is your place. Anyone gets into castle, you all be hanged. Anyone gets out of castle, you all be hanged. Three can sleep, others watch. Questions?” They all shook their head dutifully. The serjeant gave the same speech to the next tithe in line, and so on.
Things were quiet for several hours, except for a couple of arrows from the castle, shot from what looked like an oversized crossbow. The bolts fell well short of them. Oxen arrived toward mid-afternoon, pulling heavy wagons covered in sailcloth. “God be good,” Cousin Stepan said, “Those belong to the stone men. Saw them on the march here. They killed a lad who peeked under the cloth – ran a spear through his bleeding chest and hung him from the wagon as an example.” Sure enough, Mirko spotted a grisly corpse affixed to one of the clapboards, features still twisted in agony, the lower half of its body long gone. The wagons stopped just behind their position. Teamsters unhitched the oxen and led them away.
Along the line, all sounds of conversation ceased. The air was thick with fear and anticipation. Squat, bulky creatures began clambering from the wagons. The light was behind them, so it took a moment for him to see clearly, but it was just as people said: they were made of stone. Or at least, stone covered their bodies like crayfish shells, with painted tattoos decorating their upper bodies.
Somewhat shorter than men, they were half again as wide. They wore little armor, mostly just covering the joints and faces. Mirko gave thanks to God and the spirits of the forest that he couldn’t see the faces. The soft glow of their eyes through helmet visors was terrifying enough.
“How can they walk if they’re made of stone?” Havryl whispered. “It’s not right.”
“Magic.” Yosip the Woodsman said, holding up three fingers against evil. The others did the same.
The dweorgs pulled back the cloth on the first wagon. Mirko strained to see what was inside, but was disappointed when the dweorgs unloaded common axes, saws, mallets, and other tools, and piled them on the ground.
A serjeant arrived soon after with five tithes of peasants and slaves at his heels. From their weapons, Mirko realized they were from the newly-formed poleaxe tithes. “Follow the orders of Chieftain Hormidac, until he is finished with you,” the serjeant told the poleaxemen through a slave interpreter. “He has power over your lives, so do not fail him.”
For the next two days, poleaxemen felled trees and rived green timber into boards and studs, all under the impatient direction of the dweorgs. The cruelty of the stone men was remarkable. Mirko and his tithe watched in horror, thanking God not to be chosen. The stone men drove the peasants and slaves like pack animals, beating them savagely for slow work, mistakes, or the misunderstandings that were bound to occur when translating from dweorg to Oberyn to Belgorshan.
One dweorg found a peasant resting his feet in the river, and crushed them with rocky hands, leaving him to die crippled in the hateful sun.
Once the timber was ready, the dweorgs set up sailcloth blinds and unloaded the wagons behind them. Mirko caught glimpses of pulleys, gears, and mysterious machines. He and his fellows listened in wonder as the dweorgs crafted their stone throwers. From behind the sailcloth came the sounds of tools and the low, grumbling voices of the dweorgs. While they assembled the machines, the poleaxemen set to work gathering stones from the river and piling them nearby.
Once the machines were done, a royal herald walked to the castle gates, holding a God’s Mace flag overhead and a yellow flag to his side. Mirko winced in anticipation, fearing the defenders would pincushion the messenger with arrows. Instead, all they hurled were insults. The messenger staked his God’s Mace banner and the yellow flag and then called out to the defenders in Oberyn. Mirko looked to Vasik, who held up his stump, motioning for him to wait. The messenger spoke for several moments, then pulled up the God’s Mace banner and returned to friendly lines.
“A lot of it was noble finery — ‘hear the words of Leax, Priest-King of Belgorsk, Satrap of the Emperor, and Conqueror of the Seventy Hills’ — but the important bit is that they have three days to surrender with terms. Commoners go free and nobles will be kept for ransom in fair conditions. If we storm the castle, Priest-King Leax makes no promises of safety.”
For the next three days, Mirko endured the dullness of camp life. The dweorg sappers no longer provided entertainment, hiding behind their sailcloth walls or in their tents. Of course, every hour of boredom was one not spent storming the fortress. He had seen other tithes building ladders and knew it was coming, and while he wanted land and a woman, he didn’t want to kill other men to do it.
Once the deadline had passed, the herald passed through the ranks once more and approached the walls. He placed the God’s Mace banner and stood in silence. This time, a stout, bearded man came to the battlements. From his fine armor, Mirko could tell he was a Jandari lord. He responded in Oberyn, and Mirko could tell from his defiant tone that the answer was a definite no.
Then the Jandari lord did an extraordinary thing, calling out to the besieging army in Belgorshan. “Good men of Belgorsk! Leax has sent you here for a wicked purpose: to make slaves of a free people! The Jandari have no slaves and we have no serfs. Every man is free on his own land!”
Mirko looked back to the royal pavilion. Priest-King Leax sat on the Amber Throne, looking confused. A courtier leaned in, probably to interpret for him. The Jandari lord continued to shout. “The Belgorshan people deserve freedom as well. It was stolen from you by the emperor many centuries ago, but it is in your grasp. Leax has given you weapons. There are many of you for every one of the nobles. Kill your masters and join with us!”
Priest-King Leax laughed and applauded. It seemed to Mirko that
his admiration was real. Then he waved a massive arm toward the dweorg’s siege weapons and bellowed something. Mirko heard guttural orders from behind the sailcloth screen and the sounds of cranks and winches. With a loud thunk, a rock flew toward the castle, passing high and to the right. A second thunk sent a boulder crashing into the enemy wall with incredible force.
The Jandari lord regained his balance and then smiled down on the besieging army. “God forgive you all for what you are about to do!”
Encouraged by the serjeants, the Belgorshan army jeered in return, but to Mirko’s ears it sounded hollow.
CHAPTER 35
“Nock … Draw…” Helaena watched the village girls pull back their bowstrings and sight in on the archery butts. “Loose!” Twenty arrows flew toward their targets. Most struck solidly, but a few would have to be rescued from the bushes later. She and Saafi walked the line, giving correction as needed: “Keep the left arm up, Zofia. Don’t curve your back, Naiyan.”
Helaena had thought she was busy before taking over the Third Century, but now she barely had time for sleep at all. The Battle of the Slipstone had devastated the Sorority, but it was up to full numbers again; nevertheless, they were woefully unready for battle, and these were unlike any bowmaid centuries before them, with commoners making up over two-thirds their number. Refugees poured in to Dexter Castle from the savanna daily and many wanted revenge.
Lord Dexter and Canoness Judit were giving them the chance, rebuilding the border army with those who had lost homes and loved ones. Duke Killyngton, bless his soul, had also sent hundreds of his own troops to defend against the Vyr, freeing Harlowe men to join Selwyn against the Belgorshans.
Helaena put the new bowmaids through another thirty minutes of practice and sent them to the mess. Savanna girls had rough hands from work, but archery required different callouses and it wouldn’t do to blister them in the first week. She and Saafi queued for rations with others in the courtyard, then sat down on the stairs to the eastern wall. “This bread tastes like sawdust,” Saafi said, dipping it into the weak soup. “And not a flavorful wood either. No cedar for us, just ground acacia.”
Helaena laughed. “And the stew ingredients are dying off. First the meat, then the cowpeas, now the jute mallow. It’ll get worse, with the savanna emptying out.”
“You could always claim your rank and dine with Dexter. And bring me back something.”
They both knew Helaena would never do it: the Sorority endured everything together. It seemed that Prince Lyle had a similar philosophy. Helaena watched him stand in queue with a Jandari farmer and one of the castle archers, chatting amiably. Once he had his food, Helaena whistled out a sunlark call and waved for him to join them on the stairs.
“My ladies,” he said, taking a seat just below them. “How fares the training? Doing your part for the kingdom?”
“I’m just here for the food.” Saafi drained her soup bowl with a grimace. “How are things with the cavalry?”
Lyle shrugged. “Killyngton’s knights help round us out, but we’re still understrength. The light lancers will have to take a bigger role from here on.” He patted his doublet and pulled out a note. “I almost forgot. Lord Dexter received a bird from your brother a few minutes ago and asked me to pass it on.”
Helaena covered her surprise. Dexter was a Harlowe man down to his boots; it was a great gesture of trust to share a message with the son of King Randolf. The surprise doubled once she read the note, joined by a healthy measure of self-doubt. “Selwyn wants me to ride to the Swanlands and negotiate for their help. I’m to leave immediately!” She had no experience with diplomacy. What would she tell the Swans?
Wiping her fingers clean on the rough stone, Saafi asked, “Why wouldn’t he send your mother? She’s King Bertram’s daughter.”
I wish she could go – Mother is a born manipulator. “The approach to the Swanlands is too dangerous,” Helaena answered regretfully. “It’s better that I go.”
“Well, I’m coming too,” Saafi said firmly. “You’ll need a maid.”
Helaena laughed. “You’re going to be my maid? I’d have more luck with Buttermilk.”
“I should come as well,” Lyle cut in. “We’ll need to travel light and fast, so perhaps just the three of us.”
It was a good offer. Grandfather Bertram was loyal to family, but no king wanted to intervene in a divided realm. Having Prince Lyle in the delegation could reassure the Swans. “I thank you both. We should talk to Dexter.”
They found him in the Great Hall with his knights. Helaena noted that they ate simply as well, though she did wistfully catch the scent of beef. Dexter seemed to be expecting her. “My lords and gentlemen, please excuse me.” He stood and led Helaena and the others into the solar. “I assume you’ll want to leave immediately, my Lady. I have handpicked several good knights to accompany you.”
“That is considerate, Lord Dexter, but I have an escort already. Prince Lyle and Saafi will accompany me.”
Dexter smiled tightly. “That is hardly adequate, given the terrain. Your brother would not thank me.”
“My brother is not here.” She softened her tone. “I appreciate your concern, truly. A large force will only slow us and draw attention from the Belgorshans. We’ll travel at night and hide by day.” Allowing Prince Lyle to ride through enemy territory was an even bigger risk, Helaena thought, but Dexter seemed to have less concern for the Yates. If he was captured, Lyle’s ransom would not be the Harlowes’ responsibility.
“Very well. At least take my prayers for traveling mercies with you.” Dexter laid a hand on her head and murmured a benediction. “And hurry back to us. We need every bowmaid we can find, no matter how insubordinate.”
Aside from Olha Lightfoot, they told no one else of their plans and sent no pigeon to the Swans. Uncle Waldrich was sure to greet her with open arms, so there was no reason to chance word leaking out. The three of them packed quickly and left by the postern gate, telling the guards that they planned to hunt.
They made good time the first several days, riding through lands still under the sway of House Harlowe, the only delay a vast migration of bluebuck heading south that forced a detour. Fast progress ended near the torched ruins of Fairweather, reportedly the southernmost village struck by Belgorshan reivers. From there on, they would need to travel by night.
They made beds under the flame trees and waited for dusk. Saafi soon grew bored and wandered into the high grass in search of distraction.
“Nothing worries your Saafi,” Lyle said, stretching out on a horse blanket and resting his head on the saddlebags.
Helaena glanced fondly at the tracks left by her friend. “Wealth without responsibility breeds a certain kind of person. Her father is elderly, her mother dead, and she cowed any nurse hired to watch her. Saafi thinks she’s here to hook a noble husband, but I think the old man also wanted to maturate her.” She grinned. “I hope she doesn’t mature; the world has too few Saafis.”
“Well said.” Lyle tugged a goatskin of wine from the saddlebag, uncorked it with his teeth, and pulled a long swig. “Though if anything can ruin her innocence, it’ll be the Swans.”
“I don’t know. We escaped unharmed.”
“I was nine and you were unnamable — the poisonous air of the place floated above our heads. Besides, we were hardly unscathed! The welts took months to recede.”
Helaena winced in memory. “Well, it was your bloody fault.” And it was. Their families had both visited King Bertram that summer. Quickly bored by her Swan cousins, she and Lyle had become fast friends, despite the ill will between Harlowes and Yates. Many years had passed since Randolf Yates was crowned, but Harlowes were short of neither pride nor memory.
Their mothers discouraged the friendship, with Queen Edithe finally banning Lyle from seeing Helaena at all. “I still remember riding with Drina Swan, and you appearing at the edge of the woods, sitting on your pony and clutching that bag of provisions. ‘Come on!’ you yelled, ‘we can live
in the forest like The Princess and the Cobbler Boy.’ Drina must have practically killed her pony riding to tattle.”
Helaena took the goatskin from Lyle. The wine was sweet and plummy. “Half of my best memories are of you. And Selwyn, of course, once he was old enough to keep up. Thank you for staying with us. I know it can’t have been easy.”
“Actually, it was. Staying was the right thing to do, and also what my heart wanted.” Shock must have crossed her expression, because Lyle chuckled and added, “Nothing like that. My heart for you is entirely that of a brother, I promise.”
They had never broached the subject before, and Helaena was momentarily speechless. What did she feel for him? Love, certainly, but of what sort? Not courtly love. The feelings ran too deep and their childhoods braided together like rope, despite their mothers’ best efforts.
Could it be the love of a wife? She looked into his earnest, froggy face and it was beautiful to her, inspiring the same feeling that seeing Mother or Selwyn did, a sense of family. So yes, if some freak of fate arranged a marriage, she could be happy with Lyle Yates. They were companionate.
Nevertheless, he didn’t bring a giddy flush of excitement as thoughts of Addison did. When Helaena did marry, she wanted both the warmth of friendship and the intoxication of romance, like her mother and father had enjoyed. Theirs had been a strangely happy political marriage.
Saafi ambled back into camp, holding fruit triumphantly overhead. “Found ripe figs just past the rise. Some horned melons, too, but only the poison kind.”
The blue eye of Hikmet was just peeking over the horizon as they set off for the Swanlands that evening, keeping most of their attention on the trail, for a lame mount was as much a danger as the enemy. Besides, night sounds traveled far in the grasslands and they were liable to hear the Belgorshans first. Fortunately, they caught only the cries of nightjars and bat hawks, and the distant, squealing laughter of hyenas.
Heir to the Raven (The Pierced Veil, #1) Page 22